The Dragon Flower and the Forbidden Fruit
by Raven of the Shadows
Summary: He is the Dragon Flower in an enchanted garden, who has fallen for one that blooms on the tree of the forbidden fruit, and she does not return his affection. What will happen when the tree bears another flower?


_This story is written for Thalia (DarkBalance) as a Christmas present. Happy Christmas!_

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 **The Dragon Flower and the Forbidden Fruit**

It is springtime.

I love it, because the sugar-frosted coating of winter has finally melted away from the grass, and the sun washes the garden with a golden glow. But I will never tell anyone that, and if you do, I will deny I ever said it.

I am the dragon flower; you can call me _Draco_.

Our garden is an enchanted garden.

Each plant here is sentient. Other than the two gardeners—I will speak of them later—there is nothing alive here except for the vegetation that makes the garden. Though, at times, I like to believe that the dawn is brought with the chirruping of flute-throated creatures that have wings. I think they are called birds, but I am not sure.

The garden itself is wide and open, sloping gently down to a cosmic-blue river. A copse of cypress pines flanks us on one side, with a thicket of peaceful beeches standing guard on the other. They are the protectors of our garden—Gryffindors, they are called. In autumn, the fiery brilliance of their leaves is a sight: scorching-oranges, burning-browns and molten-reds. Then they drift to the ground as silently and carelessly as an ash cloud, settling in to their eternal rest. Nevertheless, they are not worth my attention.

I swing with the light breeze. The grass seems to be whispering; the stalks sway with a salsa rhythm, nodding their heads in delight.

I feel something pressing into my side. I turn with the wind, only to find the pansy flower—who has so unoriginally named herself _Pansy_ —is once again trying to get my attention. If I were a human like the two gardeners, I would have scowled.

I swat at her stalk and push her away; she isn't even appealing—well, now that is a lie, but still, she isn't my type.

None is.

Except for one.

I turn to the tree that stands in the middle of the garden. The only tree among the Slytherins—the name given to the green that fills the place. The blue hue of the sky is called Ravenclaw, while the golden soil of the garden is named as Hufflepuff. Neither of them are as entrancing, or important, as us, the Slytherins.

If the elder gardener's stories are true, the tree that stands there is the one that bears the forbidden fruit. The one that had forced Adam and Eve to leave the _Garden of Eden_.

I would have never believed the story, but the prize that grows on that flower is indeed forbidden.

 _Daphne._

That is what the flower that grows on the tree is named. The only one in this garden who holds my attention. But, she is said to have the heart of ice. She sees no other, loves no other, thinks no one as worthy of her.

She stands regally, high above all of us, like a queen, and I feel vulnerable when she looks at me. _It is just a crush_ , I tell myself. _I will get over it._

It is then that I notice it. Hope bubbles inside me, and it seems like the wind has picked up on my joy as it rustles the fallen leaves under the tree of forbidden fruits. It is still a bud, but if it blooms as beautifully as Daphne—

I want to dream, but I don't want to be crushed by another refusal. I turn away, wondering how long it would be before I give in to Pansy's badgering.

But I can't stop my thoughts from turning to that yet-to-blossom bud. Thankfully, that is when the gardeners arrive.

They are so opposite to each other, in every aspect, that I wonder why they even work together. One of them is wearing black, as always, and the other is—rather ludicrously, I think—dressed in bright orange and green. One of them is bald, and the other has hair and beard so long that they have been tucked into his belt.

Dark, as the first one calls himself, pulls out his tools, which he has dubbed as Death Eaters. I think it is rather fitting of a name, because those tools snip the dead parts away. (They never cut the plants into shapes, of course, because that would take away the natural aura that envelops the garden.)

The other one, Light, has given his implements ridiculous names… Alastor, Sirius, Arthur, Remus… I do not bother to remember them all.

Dark is rather violent; sometimes, when he is enraged, he attacks Light with his Death Eaters, but Light raises his tools only in defence, never returning the blows. I do not think he has ever initiated a fight. Or if he ever gets angered, even.

Still, I like Dark better. He doesn't treat us like porcelain objects, going hard when he needs to. He has a powerful, attractive ambience. I feel drawn to him.

The gardeners do their work in silence. Dark doesn't initiate a fight today, and I feel a bit disheartened. The garden has a captivating beauty, but after being here for a while, boredom creeps upon me, and, with the exception of Daphne, Dark fighting with Light is the only thing that manages to break that spell.

Not today.

Soon after they are gone, the shadows steal the light away bit-by-bit, and the night sneaks in. The wind dies down, and a newly-minted moon appears, drenching shady glades with silver light. The dark captivates me, and I find myself drowning in a whirlpool of dreams.

When the morning comes, the sun once again peeps through the clouds and injects life into the garden. It is raining lightly, and arcipluvian rainbows drench the mountain with coloured fire. I find myself swaying gently, when my gaze falls upon her.

All around me, the world comes to a standstill. I stare at the newly-blossomed flower that stands high-and-mighty on the tree of the forbidden fruit. Her petals are white as snow but for the slightest blush on them.

The flower seems to smile at me. I curl my petals to wink at her.

The pinkish hue on her petals deepens, and her expression turns sheepish.

 _I am Draco,_ I say _, of the Dragon Flowers, blossomed under the care of Narcissa, the flower of narcissus. What are you called?_ I ask, sending a reassuring smile towards her.

 _Astoria,_ she replies. _Sister of Daphne. Second flower of the apple tree which grows in the midst of the green grasses._

Astoria… Apples… I find myself falling in love. But, this time, I feel that my affection is returned.

 **—o§o—**

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 **An extra nugget of information:** As late as the 17th century, the word "apple" was used as a generic term for all (foreign) fruit other than berries, but including nuts. For instance, when tomatoes were introduced into Europe, they were called "love apples". In one Old English work, cucumbers are called eorþæppla (lit. "earth-apples'), just as in French, Dutch, Hebrew, Persian and Swiss German as well as several other German dialects, the words for potatoes mean "earth-apples" in English. In some languages, oranges are called "golden apples" or "Chinese apples". Datura is called 'thorn-apple". _(Source: Wikipedia)_

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 **Word Count:** 1097

 **Prompts used:**

From Writing Club

• Write about Draco Malfoy. Alt: Write a Drapple.


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